


Beginning the Fight

by Strain_of_the_Stress



Series: John Shepard [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Military Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strain_of_the_Stress/pseuds/Strain_of_the_Stress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into the Normandy at the beginning of the war as they prepare to try and save the galaxy, starting right after Mars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After Priority: Mars, En-route to The Citadel

Shepard stomped into the stateroom that wasn’t his anymore, trying to contain his emotions, a potent mix of frustration, desperation, anger, despair, hopelessness, determination, and so many others he didn’t want to think about. His armor was still covered in dust as he paced around the room, releasing it onto the bed and table and table, none of which were supposed to be his again, staining them a rusty red color. But he didn’t care. The war he had been fighting to warn his government, to mobilize his fleets and motivate the rest of the galaxy to prepare for a threat that was greater than their worst nightmares had been replaced by a war for survival in less than a day. Earth had fallen, the home world he never had called home except for the worst months of his life, center to the greatest driving force of his life had fallen in less than a day. The Illusive Man, a political character he despised on every level but considered to be only a well-funded minor terrorist threat had become one of his largest concerns and among the greatest threats to galactic safety in less than a day. It was a bit much to handle.

The Commander’s pacing slowed with his racing mind, the excitement of the past 22 hours wearing off as his brain gained time to organize, categorize, and assimilate the information he had received. It all began to fall into a picture, if not making sense then at the very least becoming digestible pieces. Shepard’s greatest strength had always been his mind, his mantra “A soldier’s most powerful weapon is the one between his ears.” Ringing true on multiple occasions. He had already possessed a natural ability to accept, process, and make judgements based off of new information before he enlisted, a skill he likely learned by watching his mother, and one  quickly had been the key to his success in The Alliance, only being amplified by his experiences in boot camp and N7 school. It had saved his life on multiple occasions, and if he had been able to process the idea that Sovereign was a living machine in time to still destroy Saren’s base (the thoughts of the casualties of such were, as always before, pushed to the back of his mind), then he could likewise make sense of what had happened in the past 22 hours.

First, though, his armor needed to come off. Then, he needed some coffee and thinking.

The pieces of the armor fell off with practiced precision, each component inserted into the auto-cleaner only to be stored in the foam-lined armor drawer with surprising care. The suit felt almost familiar – close enough to the new armor he had received from Cerberus for him to recognize that the design was near identical, but just different enough for him to feel out of place. _Isn’t that the way I’m operating though? Back to saving the galaxy and being “Commander Shepard” again, but with no crew I trust nor really any leads?_ He pulled his Service-armor off of its hanger, putting on the familiar leather-and-metal suit that felt like home and smelled of determination. Or maybe that was just the slight-panic turning to his trademark resolve.

As he touched the glowing panel on its front, the Coffee machine on the desk next to his couch started to spew coffee into a waiting cup, filling the room with the bitter aroma he associated so strongly with designs of victory and plots of success. While the plain white cup filled with the deep liquid, Shepard took a moment to regard the stateroom. It had been his not a couple of months ago, furnished by Cerberus in such a ridiculously civilian way that he was tempted to name it “Cruiseship Normandy”; and yet months of alliance overhauls and a completely different intended owner left it off. Just like his armor the room was close enough to be familiar but not enough so to be comfortable. There were a few panels missing on the walls, hasty fabric coverings protecting him from the conduits and wires that looked as a garish scar against the polished metal of the rest of the walls. The deck plates squeaked slightly as he shifted his weight, the bolts clearly not fastened all the way nor the alignment of the grav-plating underneath entirely confirmed. The entire room smelled of ship-board adhesive, and a light film of metal filings sat on some of the more seldolmly accessed horizontal surfaces.

The couch and table and bed and general architecture of the room was familiar to him, no clear change being made since the days this cabin had been adorned with the scratches of hastily removed Cerberus logos.  And yet, the lack of fish in the tank and the absence of his plethora of models made Shepard feel slightly as though he were intruding on somebody else’s room. There were no personal belongings of Anderson’s anywhere – he hadn’t had time to put even a datapad in here before he was left to defend a falling planet – but if anything, that made the feeling of intrusion all the more acute. Had the room felt to be Anderson’s, Shepard might have been able to convince himself that he was simply sharing: bunkmates as life in the universe was challenged. But the austere sterility the room presented make him feel like he was in a place where nobody belonged, his infraction on the perfect non-ownership of the cold steel and cool lighting an affront to anonymity itself.

His coffee finished with a steam-propelled sputter and Shepard grabbed it, making his way immediately to the terminal at the – _his_ – desk. He put in his spectre authorization quickly, commandeering the vessel for “Official Council business pertaining but not limited to the protection of greater council space or the apprehension of a convicted or known criminal.” as the regulations had read. Anderson had, somehow since Shepard left Earth, transferred all the relevant data too his account, sharing everything that was available on The Normandy, the crew it had left with, the crew that was now being frantically transferred to The Citadel to meet them there; everything Shepard would normally take at least a week to review but he now had 38 hours.

Shepard settled into his chair for a long night of reading and memorizing as his comm channel went off, shattering his focus and threatening to send his brain into the same manic tail-spin it was in but an hour ago. Slowly, deliberately, he put down his datapad and pressed the answer key, anticipating some news of Reapers in the vicinity or Occuli on their tail. It was not nearly so exciting.

“Commander, this is 1st Lieutenant Dyphe. Uh, sir, we left in such a hurry that we didn’t have any chance to establish department or division heads, the chain of command is sort of in chaos. The rest of the wardroom was wondering, sir, if you could give us some sort of a duty roster?”

The man sounded no older than 22, not quite fresh out of OCS but certainly fresh out of Space Vessel Officer Training Basic. His voice shook with the nerves an stress of not only the world falling apart around him, but also of having to approach his CO directly about something as mundane as a duty roster. Shepard could almost imagine the group of officers crowded around behind him, pushing him towards the comm panel, their sacrificial low-ranking lamb, anticipating with unsure minds a kind response.

“Thank-you for bringing this to my attention Lieutenant. I realize we’ve all had a hectic couple of hours, so I want you all to take a rest period for at least the next 6 hours.” Shepard paused to collect his thoughts and glance at the clock. “I want you and the rest of the officers to establish a skeleton crew for the next 8 hours. In 6 hours I want to see the most senior officer in the conference room, the one just beyond the scanners?”

“Aye sir, will there be anything else?” The Lieutenant’s voice was much more confident now, the young man seeming to at the very least overcome his fear of approaching his CO as orders came down for him to follow. Shepard heard low mumbling and rustling as the officers that were bound to be surrounding the young Lieutenant moved to execute his orders. The sound of a hatch opening and closing came faintly over the speakers.

“Yes, Lieutenant. As part of that working crew, I want at least 2 crewmen working our communications array. Disseminate word throughout the crew that each crewmember is allowed to send 3 personal messages across our systems to Alliance HQ. I don’t want to drag you all into space without giving you a chance to tell your family you’re alright. Also tell the comm-techs that all responses are to be held until we get to the Citadel, at which point they can be downloaded over their data network. Got it?”

“Aye sir. We’ll get it done.” Shepard still heard the sounds over the comm channel as more of the officers got up to arrange the crew – The Lieutenant hadn’t hung up. Often, a Junior Officer would hang up the comm before their superior was complete and, while Shepard wasn’t terribly big on military protocol, it did get annoying after a while to keep on having to re-call every junior officer to re-give an order. Perhaps he needed to check the roster to see if Dyphe was staying on at the Citadel.

“That’ll be all, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

“Very well, sir.” The intercom turned off as his cabin returned to the previous near-silent thrum of the engines at FTL.

_Great, six-hours to not only learn a crew, but also to come up with a rotation for them. Oh no, Shepard, don’t ask one of the other officers who know the people here to do it, no, this is clearly a job you have to do yourself – NO, Shepard, you know you should do this. Not only will it help you learn your crew, but you’ve always said these kinds of things should stay the concern of an officer, regardless of his rank or position. So, no help whining like a belly-aching eclipse – get to it._

The cup lifted to Shepard’s lip as he took his first sip of the scalding hot liquid, burning his tongue in the process, and reminding him why he preferred his coffee at room temperature. But the gesture was more symbolic than anything: the beginning of a new task, the beginning of a new war. Shepard reached into one of the drawers of the desk and pulled out a stack of empty datapads. Most information could be transferred too and from terminal and omnitool with incredible ease, making it very easy to access. But besides the slightly better screen resolution and incrementally faster networking capabilities of the datapads, some information was best interpreted when physically partitioned. He began moving the information around, names and dates and qualifications streaming past his eyes, staring expectantly back at him as he began to commit them to memory.

About three hours after he had started, Shepard looked, annoyed, at the little glowing dot on his terminal. For the past three hours he had done nothing but repeat names over and again in his head, trying to associate them to service jackets and qualifications, give himself enough information with which to build a workable ship’s crew. For the past three hours nothing had existed beyond the datapads and terminals that surrounded his desk – his coffee cup even going dry about an hour ago but promptly ignored. For the past three hours, Shepard had existed in a state of uninterrupted focus, until now.

His finger slammed on the answer button, perhaps slightly harder than it needed to, the slight perturbedness clear in the hard edge of his voice.

“Go ahead.”

“Sir, this is MM1 Broyles in Engineering. We got the orders a couple of hours ago from Lieutenant Christenson to operate off of a skeleton crew, but we just ran into a problem with the Drive Core, sir.”

Panic ran through Shepard’s body as he imagined every version of a Drive Core failure he had ever learned at Space Vessel Officer School Advanced. Images of melted bulkheads and mangled engineers as the slides had two years earlier as instructors warned the students of the grave danger FTL technology posed; gaping holes in the hulls of once great vessels, small fragments that barely made it through the atmosphere. Shepard worked to calm his breathing as willfully fought memories of spinning stars and an air-hose rupture closed off his throat and sent adrenaline running through his body.

“What’s the problem?”

“Sir, the field-generators are misaligned by about 4.75 degrees, likely never properly calibrated nor fastened before we left Earth.” Shepard relaxed, this was not a danger that could tear his ship apart. Render her Conventional-Speed-Restricted? Yes, if not addressed quickly. But destroy her? No.

Shepard was about to ask Broyles why this was not brought to the Engineering Department Head’s attention, before he was cut off with his answer “Normally I’d bring this to the Engineering Department Head, sir, but seeing as I don’t yet have one of those, regulations state that the XO is next. But…”

Shepard cut him off. “Seeing as we don’t have one of those, I’m the highest authority. EDI, how much will it affect our drive performance if we don’t correct the problem?”

The little blue chess-piece appeared on the platform next to his desk, but this time with a small little Alliance seal on the base, about five inches above the bottom. Shepard guessed that wasn’t a change made by any of the technicians.

“Drive efficiency is currently at 82% and dropping at a rate of 5.768% per hour. At that rate, our journey will be lengthened by 2.75 hours. The problem will render us CSR for 24.896 minutes by my estimations, but will also require five crewmen to complete correctly, as opposed to the three currently stationed in engineering. Correcting the problem to field-generator alignment within the stated 0.568 degree operating recommendations will shorten the journey by 1.845 hours.”

Shepard sighed and massaged his eyes, weighing the rest and recuperation his crew needed against Kaiden’s life. _If I think I’m strewn out, at least I didn’t leave anybody on Earth. Some of these crew members have family there, they’re terrified and unsure what’s to come. But those hours could mean Kaiden’s life, could mean help for Earth faster…_

“Alright, thanks EDI. Broyles, rack out whoever you need to fix the problem, but try to use discretion with who you choose – some of us are bound to be more stressed than others, alright? Send me a report when it’s done.”

_Great, just the way to re-assume command: “Alright, everybody get some rest. No, wait, get up and fix a drive core. Sorry guys.” Next thing you know I’m going to be feeding them a Spaghetti Dinner before a mandatory crew PT…_

“Aye sir, we’ll get right to it. Anything else, sir?”

“No, that will be all.” Shepard stood up, working the cramps that had been rapidly developing in his back out. Normally he could sit for hours in one position – he was a sniper, sometimes he had to. But something had tensed his back up, rendering him unable to sit still without comfort for much longer than three hours. _I dunno, couldn’t be THE ENTIRE GALAXY BEING ATTACKED_ , _could it? Nah, definitely not._

He grabbed his now very cold coffee cup and walked down the stairs to his auxiliary desk. The Normandy, like any other space ship, was carefully climate controlled, advanced systems and feed-back loops on top of EDI’s already dizzying capabilities ensuring that the crew got neither frozen by the vacuum of space that threatened them constantly nor fried by the heat produced by their drive core and engineering systems. That being said, the Captain’s stateroom was the highest point of the ship, farthest from any ventilation ducts and closest too some of the heat-sinks, designed to harvest any radiation given off by the dorsal-portion of the hull, that were kept super-chilled when not “Running Silent”. For all their monitoring and control, the stateroom was still unusually cold.

As Shepard’s cup was filled again with the hot life-giving liquid, he walked over to his drawers and pulled out his old N7 hoodie. His mom had bought it for him when he had completed N-school, one of the few traditional-mom things she ever did regarding his service, and since then it had accumulated its fair share of wear and tear. It still held heat in as well as ever, and still carried with it a distinct smell, an odd combination of coffee (it was omnipresent after Shepard joined The Navy), gun-oil, and that distinctive filtered space vessel filter smell. He slipped it on over his service armor, retrieving his coffee as he heard the cup finish being filled.

As he walked back to his terminal, another “Beep!” sounded and his comm light blinked again. _This is the way it’s going to be for a while, John, better settle in and get used to it._

He hit the answer button, taking a sip of the steaming hot coffee before starting. Again, it burned his tongue and lips and again he recoiled slightly; but again it was more a symbolic gesture than anything else, building his fortitude against the tasks yet to come.

“Go ahead.”

2 hours and 45 minutes later

Shepard stepped out of the elevator, smelling of fresh after shave and a new uniform but the bags under his eyes getting only heavier. The past roughly six hours had been a flurry of memorization and consternation, working through any mental blocks to try to learn his crew and this new version of his almost-familiar ship. He held in his hand two datapads, one with a duty roster that he was on his way to speak with… well, he didn’t actually know who he was going to talk to, about. The other was a group of three personal messages, just like the rest of the crew, that he had drafted right before coming down.

He hadn’t had much of an opportunity to look at the CIC on his way to his cabin before, his mind more occupied with making sense of the possible collapse of galactic civilization as we know it than taking in the minor changes made to a bridge he was already mostly at home in. Part of his reading for the past six hours had been the changes to the ship, checking every requisition and maintenance order from the auxiliary power supplies added to the back-up kinetic barrier amplifiers to the paint scratches on the bow from a sloppy docking job. But seeing the lack of Cerberus logos, the conduits snaking around the ship and the alliance uniforms standing at the terminals, few though they may have been, made him smile as his brain truly accepted that The Normandy was, once again, an Alliance Vessel.

He made his way to the dark-haired communications specialist standing at what used to be the Yeoman’s terminal to the starboard of the galaxy map – _Trenton? Tranning? Something with a T_ – and was about to talk before she turned around and snapped a crisp salute. One look at her – the impeccable fold on her sleeves, her oddly polished belt-buckle, the pristine white of her shirt’s side panels – And it became obvious that she was not a space-sailor. Crewmen who went into space regularly kept their uniforms looking as clean as possible – Shepard had gained a reputation among his peers for being all but inspection-ready at a moment’s notice – but the wear and tear of a ship was inevitable, and most crewmen did not bring their clean inspection-ready uniforms to anything that would be near a drive core. _Looks like she’s in for a hell of a ride_ Shepard thought as he rendered and cut an equally impeccable salute.

The woman stood at a strict attention, eyes peering straight through Shepard’s forehead into whatever was a thousand yards away, body going rigid in a practiced motion.

“Commander, I’m Communications Specialist First Class Traynor.” _Traynor! That’s it!_ “I’ve been assigned to handle crew messages to their loved ones. Do you have some messages you need to send?”

“At ease specialist.” Traynor stood immediately at ease, making direct eye contact with Shepard now and clasping her hands behind her back. _Here’s hoping we don’t have to have a talk with her about pulling the 2x4 out, I have a feeling things may get a little… unconventional around here real soon._ He handed her the data pad with  his messages. “I do, actually. Addresses are in there, hopefully I’m not too late for the sending window?”

“No, Commander, I was finishing cuing up the last of the crew’s messages now. I’ll get these out right away.”

“Very good, Traynor, but please don’t bump anybody else’s messages on my behalf. And as soon as all the messages are sent, close down our communications to everything except for emergency and priority alliance channels. I don’t want our position broadcasted like a blinking beacon.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Traynor stood again at attention as she rendered a second salute, returned by Shepard as he made his way to his meeting. _Hopefully, we’ll be able to make a ship out of these crewmen yet_ he thought as he was surprised by the security scanner that had been put in the corridor.

While Shepard made his way through the scanner and discussed a possible duty roster and rotation with Staff Lieutenant Tranning – _I knew I had seen that name somewhere. I must be tired if I’m forgetting the name of the senior officer besides me on board_ – his messages were getting input into the cue of messages still to be sent, downloaded within the next 20 minutes to Alliance Command Communications Network:

TO: Captain Hannah Shepard (ALTERNATIVE: Admiral Steven Hackett for Forward)

FROM: Spectre John Shepard

SUBJECT: I’m safe

CONTENT: Hey mom, last time I took on the galaxy at large I forgot to send you a message and feel terrible about that. I got off of Earth alright and am back with a familiar ship again, (you know I can’t give names – opsec), and rushing off to do what I can for the war. Love you so much, am so proud to be your son, and hope you’re safe.

MESSAGE SENT;

ERROR: DENIED ADDRESS: Captain Hannah Shepard, ADDRESS NETWORK NOT FOUND;

MESSAGE SENT TO ALTERNATIVE ADDRESS;

MESSAGE RECEIVED: Admiral Steven Hackett, FF;

NEXT MESSAGE;

TO: Tali’Zorah Vas Normandy (In Absence: Liara T’Soni for Forward)

FROM: Spectre John Shepard

SUBJECT: I’m safe

CONTENT: Tali, I don’t know where you are or what you’ve heard, but I got off of Earth alright. I hate that I lost contact with you while I was off active duty, but hope you’re safe and well. I’m going to do what I can to find you – I’m back with your favorite over-powered too-quiet ship – but I hope you understand that I also have to do everything I can to stop this. Can’t say much more – put a character restriction on these – but I miss you and will do everything I can to see you soon.

CONTENT FOR ALTERNATIVE ADDRESS: Liara, if this is reaching you then Tali’s off the grid. I forwarded it to you in the hopes that you might have some way of getting it to her, I’d appreciate it, as a friend, if you could see what you can do.

MESSAGE SENT;

ERROR: DENIED ADDRESS: Tali’Zorah Vas Normandy, ADDRESS NETWORK NOT FOUND;

MESSAGE SENT TO ALTERNATIVE ADDRESS;

MESSAGE RECEIVED: Liara T’Soni, FF; ADDITIONAL CONTENT ADDED;

NEXT MESSAGE;

TO: Garrus Vakarian (ALTERNATIVE: Solana Vakarian for Forward)

FROM: Spectre John Shepard

SUBJECT: I’m safe

CONTENT: Garrus, I made it off of Earth, flying with a perfectly calibrated set of cannons again. Hope you’re safe as well. See if you can’t send me a message so we can find a way to pick you up: I could use a gun like you to fight with.

CONTENT FOR ALTERNATIVE ADDRESS: Solana, I’m Spectre John Shepard, Commander in the Alliance Navy. Your brother and I worked closely on the hunt for Saren as well as another still classified mission before. He mentioned you and I was hoping you would be willing to send this to him. I would be incredibly appreciative.

MESSAGE SENT;

ERROR: DENIED ADDRESS: Garus Vakarian, ADDRESS NETWORK NOT FOUND;

MESSAGE SENT TO ALTERNATIVE ADDRESS;

ERROR: DENIED ADDRESS: Solana Vakarian, FF;

MESSAGE FAILED;

END OF MESSAGES.

 

 

 

 


	2. The Executive Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus arrives on The Normandy and finds Shepard in a tiring situation.

After Priority: Palaven, En-Route to Diplomat-meeting

Garrus Vakarian exits the forward battery with a bit of a groan, rolling his neck to work out some of the kinks he had developed since. Almost immediately after he had dropped the new Primarch off in the new war room of The Normandy – _Man, Shepard’s Alliance doesn’t mess around, do they? That place has got everything a commander could need and more. Next you’re going to tell me it’s got an automated drink machine underneath that holo-display. –_ he retreated to his old hiding place. It wasn’t that he was intending to retreat here the way he had when Cerberus had run the Normandy, trying to shield himself from their vitriolic rhetoric by parking himself next to the biggest gun in miles and locking the door; but rather that it was one of the few places on the ship he was utterly familiar with, felt at home. And when Palaven was burning and The Hierarchy was in this much turmoil, familiar was a commodity.

True to his predictions, the Alliance Techs had indeed messed with his guns, throwing his perfect firing and targeting algorithms off by at least 37%. But they did also remove those stupid railings and exposed the technical panels along the sides of his canons, so perhaps he didn’t have to kill them all. Now he could access some of his Thanix’s inner workings, correct some of the heat-dispersion problems that were caused by Normandy’s smaller battery compartment or reduce the expansion time by eliminating the interrupting mechanism that prevented them from expanding until fully extended. Of course, that would take the full force of his clearly, highly experienced and brilliant expertise with gunnery, but it could also be the difference between life and death in this war. And need a lot more calibrations. But then again, when the entire galaxy is going the way of the ancestors, calibrating a large piece of highly lethal machinery could be a good chore. _Hmm, that’s almost there. I need to rephrase it though… should give Shepard a laugh._

The forward battery, though, was now his own personal command station. The past couple of hours had been spent wiring a terminal to the War Room which would give him access to all of the info he now constantly needed: strategic planning programs, encrypted communications channels, a fully operational combat tactical simulator (even sprung for the human-created “Western” sound-effects package, so that he could watch his civilization be hypothetically crushed to the sounds of “Cowboys” and “Buckaroos”, which he found unusually amusing. The Reaper forces would even say “There’s only room for the two of us in this galaxy” while the simulation was loading. Whoever had created the mod had a twisted sense of humor, but so did Garrus to an extent).He even had access to a portion of The Shadow Broker’s new codex, filled with all kinds of interesting data and illicit information, but he was still too scared to use it. _Since when did our sweet little Prothean archeologist become one of the most feared and ruthless information brokers the galaxy has ever known? They grow up so fast._

He walked past the cryo-pods in the crew-deck level of the Normandy’s main corridor, still wondering not only why they were there when the crew now had its own berthing, but also why they were put there, of all places. On the original Normandy, he knew that the pods had been the crew’s sleeping quarters – crewmen sharing one pod and alternating who slept in it as watches rotated; but now that they had their own, albeit slightly crowded room in which to share beds, he couldn’t figure why they’d still need these. What was Cerberus thinking? Tali had told him that maybe they were emergency medical stasis pods, since they were equipped with cryogenic technology, but if that were the case, Garrus figured they’d be in the actual Med-bay where the medical emergencies were more likely to be. He had suggested stasis pods for captured prisoners, a place to put them on ice before an interrogation – but not only was that more Archangel talking than Garrus Vakarian, but it also raised the question of why there were so many. The only conclusion he could see that made any sense, that was again a little too much from Archangel’s dark mind for his preference, was that they were stasis pods for assassinations where no corpse could be left. But in that case, why so far from the cargo bay?

As Garrus walked into the elevator he pushed the icon for Deck 1, where he presumed Shepard would be. He had caught some Lieutenant named Dyphe on his way  to the Main Battery and asked him about The Commander, at which point he had been told Shepard had taken to his loft for almost any time he wasn’t directly needed on the bridge, in the war room, or on the ground. Some members of the crew apparently hadn’t even seen him which, even with the new 68 crew they had picked up at The Citadel to make a full complement seemed unreasonable to him on such a small vessel. Something was up with Shepard, and his illustrious, exceptionally handsome, and clearly the better marksman friend (who also talked to way more girls) was going to find out what.

The elevator moved with unnerving slowness, seeming to labor under a weight that was not even a percent of what it could handle, as it took Garrus up to Shepard’s Stateroom. If he was honest with himself, Garrus wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. Sure he knew the man well and treated him like the brother he never had, but it had been eight months since he had even last heard from him. For somebody that went stir crazy just sitting in a shuttle for fifteen minutes while it descends onto a battle on a dead world with a deadly sun, that couldn’t have been easy. He knew Shepard enough to know that the same pure-intention and caring heart would remain under whatever had happened to his less essential traits, not even dying and being brought back to life by a crazy human-supremist morally deprived terrorist organization had managed to injure those traits. But he also knew how jaded and cynical things like that can make you. C-Sec had turned him a cynic just by asking him to follow what he now realized was some fairly sound legal procedure and fill out some papers, he couldn’t imagine what being punished for a decision you could never get right would do to a man.

The elevator stopped and Garrus walked into what was a fairly familiar ante-room, one meant to give the Captain at least some attempt at privacy on a small stealth cruiser like The Normandy. It looked the same except for some evidence of the apparently extensive overhauls The Alliance had undertaken to make The Normandy an admiral-worthy flagship and not a self-sufficient special missions unit. What alarmed Garrus, though, was the glowing red of the door panel that barred his entry when he tried. He entered the authorization code Shepard had given him earlier again, but again he was met with the same coldly mechanic beep. Panic rose in Garrus’ throat as Archangel imagined every way his friend could die in that room, slipping on spilt coffee to break his head on the desk, strangling himself in his sleep with his sheets during a vicious nightmare, a crack in the dorsal heat-sinks which sat over the ceiling which would leak coolant into the room and asphyxiate the commander as he struggled to open the door while clawing at his throat…

He shook his head, trying to dispel the increasingly vivid, and perhaps slightly ridiculous, thoughts.

“EDI, why is Shepard’s door denying me access? I can’t even chime him.”

The cool, synthesized voice rang out in the small compartment. Garrus had forgotten how disconcerting it was to hear such a clearly robotic voice and remember that it was an unshackled AI which ran the ship.

“The Commander was modifying the door panel’s authorization protocols when he ceased all input 10.568 minutes ago. In the absence of operating algorithms, the door’s lock has defaulted to it’s lockdown setting.”

“Can you get me inside?”

“Why do you wish to enter, Garrus?”

“Because helping him and working to destroy the reapers has been a secret plan and I have actually always intended to murder him for stealing my wife and unborn child.” He responded, cutting sarcasm combining with increasing annoyance.

Silence rang through the room.

Garrus sighed.

“That was a joke, EDI”

“I know, Garrus. I was working on unlocking the door. You should be able to access it now. I would recommend pouring tea at the commander’s feet and breaking his neck as he descends the stairs – it would contain all the hallmarks of an accidental death.”

Garrus paused for a bit as his mind tried to make sense of what he had just heard, eventually opening the door. _Sarcasm? From EDI? Either that or she is actually intending to become The Overlord. Things around here really have changed._

 “Thanks, EDI, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Garrus scanned the room quickly, his visor giving nominal readings for the slightly-chilled stateroom, hand reaching for the pistol that was no longer on his hip, more out of instinct than concern. While Shepard had allowed, if not encouraged his trusted ground-team to keep sidearms with them on missions, and even on the ship (though they needed to be concealed, Garrus’ a small two-shot pistol imbedded in his thigh armor). Now that he was back with the Alliance, though, and had a crew he trusted implicitly, Shepard had made it very clear: No weapons on The Normandy. From what he had said in the short shuttle ride up, The Normandy would be housing individuals with enough bad blood as it was, weapons did not need to be added to the mix.

Eventually, though, Garrus came to regard a figure slumped over Shepard’s desk, head planted firmly on a pile of datapads and turned away from him. Had it not been for his visor, he probably would have panicked and ordered an immediate lockdown of the ship, chain of command be damned; Shepard looked just about dead. But a little display was telling him that his heartbeat was a low 49 bpm and his respiration rate was slowed too. Upon stepping towards the desk and seeing the trail of drool which ran over the top-most datapad, Garrus chuckled as he realized Shepard was asleep. That was why his door modifications had ended ten minutes ago: he had practically passed out from exhaustion.

Garrus stepped back towards the fishtank (which, uncharacteristically, lacked fish. Even dead ones.) and crossed his arms as he leaned against the bulkhead. He had come up here to discuss Shepard’s practically reclusive behavior, but he now seemed to have his answer. It had seemed strange when he had first gotten a crew manifest that Shepard had no executive officer listed, Staff Lieutenant Tranning the closest thing as Engineering Department Head. But it was now clear, if the exhaustion-induced practical coma and mountain of datapads was any evidence to go off of that, true to form, Shepard had rather decided he didn’t need one, taking all the responsibilities inherent to running a starship upon himself. _Sometimes, that man is more stubborn than a hungry Krogan. I swear he just told Death he didn’t want to go and Death just gave up after two years of arguing._

Garrus walked over and nudged Shepard in the shoulder, causing his tenuously folded hands to fall down. The man grumbled incoherently, but beyond that he resumed his apparently very deep sleep. After a slight chuckle to himself, the action was repeated until one moved Shepard’s head off of the pile of data pads and desk, causing it to slam into his right knee.

“No that seems fine…” Shepard yelled, blinking as he adjusted to the new light and sat immediately straight. He turned around and looked at Garrus, whose mandibles were flared in a Turian grin while he laughed at shepard’s reaction.

“Garrus? What are… I fell asleep, didn’t I?”

“You sure did Shepard, deeply too. I had to punch you a couple of times and destroy the galaxy to wake you up.”

Shepard rubbed his eyes with his right hand as he blearily regarded his desk, back hunched with poorly concealed tiredness, the bags under his eyes slightly brighter than the space outside his sky-light.

“Sadly, though, somebody had already started the task for me.” The Turian joked as Shepard stood up to stretch, making a sound that was distinctly unlike anything Garrus had heard from him, or any human for that matter, before.

His demeanor suddenly became much more serious. “Shepard, how long has it been since you had any sleep? EDI tells me you fell asleep while trying to modify your door lock. I had to ask her to even chime you not to mention get in.”

“Did I? Well I’ll have to finish that.” Shepard walked down to the auxiliary desk with his constantly-present coffee cup in hand. “It’s been a while since I’ve slept, Vakarian, I guess I just needed a nap. I feel fine now.” His last few words were hastily used to stifle a yawn.

“I’ve heard some of the humans use a little phrase around here, thought you might be familiar with: Bull Shit. We both know that last part was a lie. Now, honestly, how long has it been since you slept.”

Shepard could feel his irritability rising, the pervading sleepiness not helping at all.

“Vakarian, I said I’m fine. You don’t need to know how long it’s been since I’ve slept. I’ve got my coffee, maybe a few stims somewhere, I’ll make it through this. I’ve been through worse.”

He tried to walk past Garrus back to his desk, a few of the Datapads on top resonating with his still groggy brain as marked “urgent”, but Garrus caught his left arm above the Elbow and stopped him in his tracks, fixing him with piercing blue and semi-visored eyes. His tone was unusually stern, but not containing any particular anger malice, that of a Turian who was trying to help his overly-stubborn friend.

“I’d be willing to guess ‘worse’ didn’t include a Reaper invasion. Shepard, your crew says you’ve practically locked yourself up here, and even The Primarch remarked to me about how tired you looked. I may not be a member of your chain of command, but I am your friend, and as such I’m asking you: How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Garrus releasead Shepard’s arm, the man slouching in defeat as he looked at his omni-tool for the time.

“About 42 hours.”

“Shepard, that’s extreme, even for you. From the datapads on your desk and the amount of sludge that’s collected in your disgusting coffee cup, not to mention the lack of an XO on the Ship’s Manifest, I’d say you’re trying to run this ship by yourself. Why haven’t you let anybody help you?”

Shepard retreated to the couch, setting his hot cup down on the table. He rubbed his eyes, but this time continuing down to his face, as if trying to get some liquid form of exhaustion off. By the time he opened his eyes, he looked directly at Garrus, equal parts determination and frustration apparent.

“Garrus, I’m their captain, their safety is my job. I’m supposed to know everything that goes on, do everything in my power to lead them to victory. There’s nothing about it that guarantees sleep or rest, I’ve already sort of given up hope that this war won’t be won almost exclusively caffeine and stim packs. Frankly, Garrus, I’m not certain I’ve got a choice.”

“Shepard, you’re not only being expected to captain a warship, but go on to broker alliances which will unite the galaxy. You may be good, but even you’re not be that good. Tell me, how hard would this be without having to deal with The Primarch and Admiral Hackett and The Council all asking for you to fix their problems for them or give them their solutions?”

Shepard sighed as he picked up his coffee, bringing it to under his nose as his elbows came to rest on his knees.

“Challenging, but probably not this bad.  I’d say about half of those datapads are messages, demands, anything and everything from various levels of just about every government that has any contact with The Council. Apparently I’m supposed to be the man who can unite the galaxy, who knew? Problem is, I can’t neglect my crew as well. They’re the people I’ve been placed directly responsible for. Neglecting them would be… well, wrong.”

Shepard had been glancing down at his coffee while talking, but as he looked up he saw Garrus looking him dead in the eye, leaning forwards and clasping his hands in front of him.

“Then why don’t you have an XO to take care of it?”

“Alliance hasn’t given me one. Plain and simple. I wouldn’t be too opposed to the idea, I know how an Alliance ship is supposed to work, with a team at the top. Problem is that The Alliance has been working to commandeer as many vessels as they can for this fight. If it can have a Gun on it, it will within a couple of months. Enlisted personnel aren’t terribly hard to get, but The Alliance has always been picky about who their officers are, and we’re spread a little thin now. The Normandy is supposed to have a Ward Room of 15. Currently we’ve got 10, including me, none of whom are qualified to command a starship, all of whom are needed elsewhere. We just don’t have the people for it. And even if I wanted to fix it, I don’t have the time to come up with a plan. I’m too busy keeping our heads above water to figure out how to build a raft.”

Garrus looked away to think, staring through the sky-light to see the stars and faint blue hue above it, Shepard following the gaze. He had initially hated the feature of his stateroom, considering it a cruel Cerberus joke to give him a view of the same vacuum about which he still had nightmares. He couldn’t stand to see the cold expanse which had robbed him of his life before, extinguished his body and robbed him of breath. Slowly he had come to terms with his death and remarkable technological resurrection, still not entirely comfortable with the idea but not as almost-terrified as he had been of it before. Through plenty of nights of soul-searching and self-contemplation, plenty of holes stared through bulkheads and confused entries to his seldom-read but often used personal journal, had come to accept it, take it as more a break in his story than an abomination. As he did so he started to see another image beyond the window, started to focus more on the stars that punctuated the oppressive blackness. In them he saw life and warmth, evolution of societies which had endlessly rich histories and unthinkably bright futures. He had been handed back his life from the Void through technology, but life itself had demanded existence through what seemed to some as will and others luck, but him will alone. It had prevailed in environments where few thought it could even exist much less thrive, and developed intelligence and technology that were wondrous to consider. He still felt a panic when he couldn’t see the stars, still had nightmares about drifting into oblivion as the void and soon after the fiery hell of re-entry claimed his body, but when he could see the galaxy through that window, remember the hope and opportunity that existed beyond it, then he could bring himself to look.

“I could be your XO.”

Shepard was awoken from his contemplation that had soon turned into the thousand yard stare of the woefully tired as Garrus interrupted the near silence of the room. He turned to regard his friend, who was still staring out the window.

“What do you mean, Vakarian?”

“Like I said, Shepard, I could be your XO. I may not have experience commanding a warship, but I’ve been around you long enough to pick-up some tricks and like to think you trust me. On top of that, I’ve been leading my Reaper Task Force for a while now. Not saying it’s the same, mine is clearly better, but there are probably at least some transferrable skills.”

Shepard stopped to think. Beyond the return of his slightly-arrogant sense of humor indicating a good shift in the conversation, Garrus wasn’t wrong. Shepard had taken a look at what that task force had been doing, and what Garrus may have been trying to down-play on the shuttle ride up seemed a far cry from small. Not only that, Garrus had demonstrated clear leadership skill from the Hunt for Saren clear through being the auxiliary team-leader during The Collector Base mission. But beyond all that, Shepard had come to trust Garrus almost implicitly, and knew he would do everything he could to learn the role even beyond what he already knew. There was but one problem.

“What about your responsibilities to The Hierarchy?”

“First of all I’m here, not on Palaven. I’m as much a part of this crew as you are, and I want to see it succeed as much as you do. On top of that, I can still handle most of my responsibilities. Most of them are just messages and requests for advice and, while you may be too stupid to know to find yourself an XO, I have one who I know is not only still in contact with The Hierarchy, but I also trust to handle most of what we’re being asked.”

Shepard cocked his eyebrow at that, Garrus laughing at both the unspoken inquiry as well as the funny human expression.

“Don’t worry, Shepard, you’re not being replaced. He wouldn’t even know the barrel from the stock of a sniper rifle and I’m fairly certain he actually knows how to dance. I’ll tell you about him later, but he’s one of my few old friends from C-Sec. Helped in defending The Citadel from Saren and was one of the few people who fought against The Council’s denial of everything you’d done.”

Shepard glared slightly at the quip about his dancing, but nodded as he considered Garrus’ proposal, finding himself increasingly sold on the idea.

“In that case, the only problem I see is that we’re both ground team. What happens when we’re both needed for a mission?”

Garrus had clearly considered this earlier, since his answer was all but immediate, as he sat back to assume the pose Shepard had since associated with “Sarcastic mocking”: one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, arms spread around the back of the couch, mandibles flared in a mild grin.

“Your Alliance may think it’s a great idea to put their captains in charge of the majority of ship’s operations, but Turians tend to lean more on their Temporary Command Officers, what you’d call Officer of the Deck. I’ll get you a plan to get around that, and to give you some breathing room with all your new diplomatic responsibilities.”

“One last question, though: We’re an Alliance Vessel. Last time I checked, we can’t just re-arrange our command structure.”

Garrus leaned forwards again, this time not so mocking as excited at his answer to this.

“But you’re a Spectre, Shepard. You have the authority to change the chain of command of any vessel you’ve been placed in charge of to better suit your mission. It might take some work from Hackett to get him to sign the necessary papers, but you actually can legally do that. Trust me, I poured over those regs as a kid. All the council races sign documents saying you can do it. Besides, we’re in the middle of deep space, running around, saving everybody’s asses. Do you think anybody’s really going to care so long as they don’t end up a husk the next day?”

Shepard went to stand up, finally sold on the idea. He wasn’t sure what Garrus had in mind, unsure as to what master plan had been cooking behind that visor, but was still willing to try it. _Heaven help me, I’m letting a Turian tell me how to run my ship. If only Admiral Mikhailovich could see me now. He’d have an aneurysm._ He started to walk back to his desk, coffee cup in hand.

“Vakarian, you’ve convinced me. Get me a proposal for a new structure by’ Shepard glanced at his omni-tool, groaning at both the time and the countdown timer he had until they reached the diplomatic ship – _I knew I was going to be tired, but I didn’t necessarily think sleep would become an impossibility. “No, Admiral, Shepard can’t save the galaxy today, he died of exhaustion yesterday.” I wish, maybe then I’d stop feeling like the walking dead… well, walking tired dead. –_ ‘1000 hours. That’s six hours to work on it, alright?” He sat down and began to organize his datapads before stopping to look at Garrus, noticing his glare.

“No, Vakarian, I’m not going to bed now. You may have sold me on the idea of introducing a new and better command structure, and I may have even agreed to let you be my XO – goodness help me – but that’s not going to solve the problems on these datapads. Also, did you insult my coffee cup a couple of minutes ago?”

Garrus relented when he realized the truth to what Shepard was saying, and started to walk to the door, turning to face him. “An insult might imply it was untrue. I’m fairly certain some of the stuff at the bottom of that thing is alive.”

Shepard laughed as he took a sip of the now tepid liquid. “I do have access to your precious Thanix cannons, you know. Something might find itself uncalibrated.”

“You also have access to a dishwasher. I’d take having to re-write some firing algorithms if it meant we weren’t trying to discover a new form of life in your cup. Too bad Mordin never saw it, he’d have the time of his life.”

“He did, at one point, I’m fairly certain it was alive at some point.”

Garrus laughed as he exited the room, the doors sliding easily closed behind him. Before he was even in the elevator his mind was reeling with ideas for new crew organizations, cooking up schemes and structures faster than he could record them on his now-open omnitool.

Crew Deck, 20 minutes later

The Shadow Broker sat at her port-side terminal, still trying to learn as much about the Prothean Device as possible as she scoured recently translated designs and worked on uncovering more. Since it’s discovery The Device had commandeered her every moment, taking her attention from almost everything except her ground missions and the occasional voyage out into the mess hall. She didn’t mind particularly, after her mother died on Noveria she had no living family to speak of, not to mention mourn or worry over, and the work kept her busy, a single point to focus on while the rest of the universe fell apart around her.

Sometimes it was a curse, having the vast networks of information and informants at her disposal, reading into the plights of governments and slaughtering of people. Whereas the war was but a tragedy for most, blissfully unthinkable in scale, Liara was given hourly reminders on just how terrible that scale was, how many helpless innocents it included in its fiery holocaust. Some days required all her strength and will to not just give up, just concede defeat and let death find her at the end of a pistol. _How can we possibly hope to fight something so powerful, so utterly immense? The Protheans were more unified, more powerful and more advanced, but the Reapers harvested them too. If they fell, then what hope do we have?_

A fist came down upon the console with biotic-enhanced despair, eyes dry more with shock than any lack of emotion. So many dead, so many missing, from every species and every government. The enormity of this disaster weighed heavily on her constantly, her networks never letting her forget…

A beep as her terminal finished a translation program startled her from her spiraling thoughts. _No, we will fight this. The Protheans never finished this device, seemed to get it in incomplete form. We will finish it. Shepard will lead us to victory, and you will help in every way this network was meant to._ Her hands began to type with renewed fervor as thoughts of a harvested apocalypse gave way to the slimmer of hope that this device had borne. Perhaps they could win.

As she worked, though, a light went off on one of her other terminals, a small sound indicating a message. She turned from her console, inputting the last few commands to one of her Illium based agents imbedded in a leading archeological firm, standing to investigate the new message. Her heart stopped for a minute as she read:

TO: ADDRESS BLOCKED

FROM: Governer Vasna Polas

SUBJECT: Previous Inquiry

CONTENT: Broker, I used all my available contacts to find The Migrant Fleet as you asked, but came up with nothing, even the Quarians who were here on Pigramage were recalled quickly. I have sent the message on as many channels as possible, both publically and to some of my own contacts within the fleet. As far as I can tell, the Quarians are completely dark. Attached are the failed messages.

READING ATTACHMENTS;

TO: Suri’Talpec vas Rayya

FROM: ADDRESS BLOCKED

SUBJECT: Message to be sent

CONTENT: Suri, attached is a message of a friend. It contains sensitive personal information. If you could, please see to it that it is delivered to its addressed recipient.

ATTACHMENTS NOT DISPLAYED;

ERROR: DENIED ADDRESS: Suri’Talpec vas Rayya, ADDRESS NETWORK NOT FOUND;

MESSAGE FAILED ;

NEXT ATTACHMENT;

Liara closed the terminal as she felt the bitterness of 27 failed messages rise in her throat. The Quarians had gone dark a few days before The Reapers had hit earth, and it was only possible not to assume the worst outcome. _Their fleets couldn’t withstand any Reaper attack. Last I knew their defensive capabilities, while growing, were nowhere near strong enough to fight off even one Sovereign Class, not to mention an invasion force._

With grim fingers Liara forwarded the message to Shepard’s private terminal, adding a short personal condolence, before she returned to her work. At least in this she could make a difference. At least here she could find hope.

Deck 1, Concurrent Time

The beeping and green light of his terminal pulled Shepard from the most recent of The Council’s administrative requests. They didn’t even seem like Spectre-level requests, rather just questions looking for answers from anybody who would give one, as though The Council itself were hiding and hoping for somebody else to run their galaxy. _Wouldn’t be unlike them to continue to deny any threat and hide behind their buearocracy. Pretty soon they’re going to just have to give up the pretense of worrying and leave the galaxy to its own devices._ Shepard laughed bitterly at his own cynical thoughts before he reminded himself that they were the duly selected government, and that others had faith in them.

The Council continued to be a hard issue for him to come to terms with, balancing personal vendettas against duty and responsibilities. On the one hand, The Council was responsible for ensuring that his warnings never quite saw fruition, that defenses were never quite bolstered the way they should have been. Beyond that he couldn’t help but fight the feeling that they personally resented him for daring to question their comfortable and assumed correct rhetoric. But they were also the governmental system the galaxy had operated off of since Ancient Greece had experienced it’s Golden Age, the one he was beholden too by status and duty.

Shepard turned to his terminal to see what message was sent, smiling to himself when he saw Liara’s name under the Sender field. She had practically barricaded herself in what used to be Miranda’s Quarters since she first got aboard, leaving only to initially fetch her equipment and later for the occasional meal, but even those were taken in the company of her monitors and terminals. He had been meaning to go talk to her, but had yet to find the time amidst the myriad of requests and demands and maintenance authorizations and administrative duties.

He began to read the message but could not make it past Liara’s summary, turning the terminal’s screen blank before he could feel his spirit drop any more. His coffee cup was set down on the desk hard as he rested his forehead in his palms, closing his eyes to try and calm himself, an internal war for personal control raging. _Goddammit John, even Liara couldn’t find her, she’s gone. Accept it: The Reapers have killed her._

_No, I won’t accept that. I have to keep looking, have to find her. I don’t think I can make it through this without her._

_Yes, you will. You’re Commander Shepard, even Anderson has faith in you. You’ll find a way._

_I don’t see any way out. She’d see a way._

_Well she isn’t here. You have duties, a ship to run, a galaxy to save. You can find your maybe-girlfriend some other time._

He sat like that for longer than he cared to figure, head bowed with his forehead in his palms. His breathing alternating between self-calming breaths and panicked gasps of air, the two sides of his mind warred for control, The Commander intent on saving the galaxy and John wondering where the person in the galaxy he needed most was.

Eventually the terminal screen was brought back to life and the reports he had been reading pulled up again, but this time the eyes that looked at them were not filled with fatigue or mild boredom. Now they were overflowing with bitterness towards the inequities of the universe and anger towards the death The Reapers brought with them. Determination to fix it, put right what he could and defend those who could not do so themselves. Sadness, to the point that threatened to break his spirit if he couldn’t control it. But most of all, his eyes were not dry.

 _Dammit Tali, we need you. I need you._  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% certain how well my Vakarian dialogue came-out, any comments on that would help. 
> 
> I like the idea that The Normandy operates differently than most other Alliance Ships since it does serve in a unique role with some highly unique personnel on it, and this chapter sort of works to set that up. 
> 
> I promise I'll go through and review the story for bad phraseology and grammar mistakes soon, I just first want to get the entire thing out of my head and in one place. Also so that I can get comments from you. 
> 
> Again: PLEASE COMMENT, I NEED FEEDBACK. Kudos would also be appreciated, but mostly because they make me giggle and feel good.


	3. Chain of COmmand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Shepard discuss the Ships' future operations, and news gets given to the crew of the changes yet to come.

1000 hours, Deck 1

This wasn’t what Shepard expected. Not that he wasn’t pleased with the results, quite the opposite really, but it was certainly not what he had expected. When he had agreed to let Garrus write a new command structure for The Normandy, he was expecting a 3 or 4 page summary, outline really, that would then be refined and solidified by the duo together. Instead, he got a 38 page book of Standard Operating Procedures which was, by all sense of the word, thorough. Minus a couple of grammatical mistakes and spelling errors the document was bullet proof, accounting for almost every contingency plan he himself could think of, and then some. How Garrus had managed all of that in six hours was completely beyond him.

Shepard was now sitting at his desk, a fresh uniform finally finding itself on him and two hours of rest reducing the bags under his eyes, though only slightly. He had continued working for as long as he could after he had dismissed Garrus, prioritizing those matters which kept his ship operational and managing those within four hours. By the time he had finished it was 0750, and Shepard’s eyes were threatening to refuse to focus at all. Ultimately, though, it had taken EDI threatening to invoke the right of medical relief of command in absence of a doctor for him to be torn from his work for an hour and a half of sleep (Shepard wasn’t sure under whose orders the AI was operating, but he had a suspicion his answer might be found in the main battery). While not fully refreshed he had still woken up being able to at the very least read, grabbed a ration pack from the stash he kept under his desk, made himself a cup of coffee and opened his terminal to find a lengthy report from his newly appointed XO, explaining every detail about how the ship will run.

_Well, it’s nothing if not thorough. Hackett might have a cow, but he’s not the run trying to captain a warship AND negotiate unification in the galaxy._

Shepard hit his comm button “Vakarian, could you come up here?”

“I’ll be right up.”

True to his word, not two minutes later Garrus Vakarian was stepping through Shepard’s stateroom hatch, and quite the sight to see he was too. Shepard had seen tired Turians before, there were plenty walking around The Citadel, not to mention some of the shared bases and space stations between The Alliance and The Hierarchy. He had even seen a Turian fatigued to the brink of death, the same one actually. But the exhaustion Garrus wore on his face now carried a different air to it. His eyes were still slightly sunken, not darting quite as quickly in their black sockets and his mandibles allowed to drift lazily a couple of centimeters away from his face, but there was no hunched back, no bowed head. This time, the tiredness was worn with pride, especially as Garrus spotted his SOP on Shepard’s terminal.

Garrus stood in front of Shepard, centered in his field of vision and assuming the stance of attention. His head stared what seemed like through the bulkhead behind Shepard and clear into space, his feet together and pointed straight ahead. His arms were straight at his sides, and palms flat against his thighs. Overall, the position was similar to the one Shepard had assumed countless times before, and watched countless cremembers assume on his behalf, but with its own little bit of Turian hidden in the opened palms and straight feet. _Well, he’s obviously taking this new XO position seriously._

“You wanted to see me, Sir?” Garrus snapped out, still standing with a stiffness and practiced precision that could only have come of his years of service in both the Turian Military and C-Sec.

“At ease, Vakarian.” The change was instant. Immediately Garrus’ back a posture not quite so rigid, still upright beyond any doubt but not uncomfortably so. His feet seemed to spring to shoulder width and his arms came to rest behind his back, clasping each-other behind his waist. What was the starkest change, though, by far was the sudden and intense eye contact.

“First of all, Vakarian, you may be my XO now but that doesn’t give you permission to go all formal on me. ‘Shepard’ will do just fine. Drop the ‘Sirs’. Second of all, this plan you’ve presented me is… well, not quite what I expected.”

Garrus shifted uneasily at the last sentence. “Is there a problem with it?”

“No, not at all. If anything it’s fantastically thorough. But I was expecting a one or two page outline, a decent proposal at most. Not a full SOP.”

Garrus’ fidgeting stopped as he realized the compliment he was staring down. True to form, he gave Shepard a bit of a smirk.

“Well, not everybody can be this thorough, but it is _me_ we’re talking about, Shepard.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Shepard smiled back, waving his hand in the air to clear it of the joking arrogance. “Actaully, though, I wanted to talk to you about a few points here, clarify them, make sure that I’ve got them right.”

Shepard stood up and gestured to the couches, indicating for Garrus to sit down. H never really liked the one man standing the other sitting arrangement for anything but disciplinary hearings, it put people too on edge, made them instinctively nervous. This was most certainly not a disciplinary hearing.

“Alright, so first thing: This ‘Administrative Officer’, according to you he sits beneath you and myself and filters what gets brought to our attention with a few exceptions. That would make sense and all if we had another command-qualified officer, but I told you before: we don’t. How is he going to be able to do his job without having experience as a captain?”

“That’s the thing, Shepard, he doesn’t need to know how to be a captain per se, but rather just what needs to be handled by the captain. The Turian Navy has a position similar to that on board our larger ships, Dreadnoughts mostly, just because of the scope of the vessels. There’s actually usually a couple of them, and two tiers, but I figured that they all do the same thing: reduce the number of things the captain has to make a decision on. If your officers are even half as good as they appear to be, then they should be able to determine whether or not something requires your attention. Plus, we can even write up for him a list of things that require our attention and don’t.”

“Okay, I think that could work. It’s definitely unconventional, at least compared to what The Alliance typically uses, but I could see it going over well. Next question: You’ve got a lot more chief and senior enlisted spots in here than a typical vessel. Not saying I disagree with it, just wanted to know some of your thought process.”

“Permission to speak candidly, Shepard?”

Shepard stopped a little bit at the question. _We’re really going to have to work with him on this whole XO thing. He’s gone from beating people to death with his two by four and shoved it right back in place. Might even have decorated it a little bit._

“As always, granted. Please don’t ever ask that again.”

“You know I’m going to ask every time now. Anyways, frankly I think your alliance is just wrong in the way it handles its officers. The Hierarchy takes all of its officers from the enlisted ranks, right at the same point at which they would switch to senior enlisted. Officers are treated more like just a different aspect of the crew and than a different type of crew from the Enlisted, and because they’re enlisted all of them have the necessary experience. I know this isn’t a Turian vessel, but I looked at the personnel we have available, Shepard. We have just enough officers to put as Department heads with Joker and Cortez, but if we tried to go any further we’d need more personnel. Frankly, you need those Senior Enlisted.”

“Alright, that makes sense. We may have to get some Warrant Officer ranks just so Hackett doesn’t have a cow… he’s a bit of a hardliner when it comes to the difference between officer and enlisted personnel. You mentioned my next question, though: Departments. You’ve broken the ship up in a logical fashion, but I just wanted to see how you imagine this division going.”

Garrus smiled as he realized these weren’t actually clarifying questions. Shepard understood the system perfectly, knew exactly what had been proposed. This was a combination test and job interview. Not only did Shepard want to see the thought process behind this new system, but he wanted to make sure it had been properly considered. _It’s a good strategy, I’d do the same if our places were switched._

“By my figuring, the Normandy is broken into four parts: we’re a command and control center for basically the entire war effort in our war room, we’re a deployment vessel with the ground team and forces we have available, we’ve got one of the largest relative-size eezo cores stuffed up our asses, and at the end of the day we’re a warship too. Tactical Department is all the individuals that are necessary to run the War Room, the technicians and tacticians who Primarch Victus still can’t seem to tell apart. They’re going to handle all the war assets, the planning, our strategic communications – such as the QEC. Ground Department is going to take care of small arms, armor, the shuttle craft, and the few Marines we have on board. Basically everything needed for an operation from the time our shuttle leaves the docking bay to the time it comes in again. Engineering is pretty straight forwards – all the maintenance and repair work we need done, you’re familiar with that. Operations is everything related to the wartime running of the ship – CIC crew, pilot, medical, shuttle-bay crew, etc.”

“What about supply? Every other ship I’ve served on has a full logistics department.”

“Cortez can handle procurement, that pretty little sniper rifle you carry everywhere is evidence enough of that. But after all the supplies take in, they’re handed off to the individual departments that need them to be handled. I looked at the Alliance’s logistics department set-up, and while it seems necessary for a ship like a Dreadnought, it doesn’t seem feasible for a small-crew vessel like The Normandy.”

“Okay, one last question then: Ground Team. It says here that they’re… Shepard pulled up the datapad he had brought to the couch with him to read the particular sentence. This had truthfully been a bit of a test for Garrus, just making sure he wasn’t straight-copying Turian operations nor inventing his own systems without proper consideration, but the ground team was one aspect Shepard was slightly confused on. “ ‘Advisors to the departments which feel they can best use their skills, equivalent to the Department Officer when given authority over a task and responsible to the same for accountability reasons, but outside the standard rank and command structure of the ship at all other times.’ I don’t suppose you’d mind clarifying that at all, would you?”

“Sure, Shepard, I know sometimes you have a bit of trouble keeping up.” Shepard rolled his eyes, making Garrus laugh at the absurdity of the human gesture. “Yeah, Vakarian? Remind me who took the kill shot on that Brute back on Menae?”

“That was Liara and we all know it.”

“Okay, granted, but who got it’s shields down?”

“Some Alliance Soldier I’ve never heard of. Don’t think he’s really worth much either. Definitely hasn’t saved the galaxy twice.”

“Uh huh. Anyways: Advisors.”

“Yeah. So I figured you wanted to maintain control over all the members of the Ground Team, that’s the way it’s always been.” Garrus raised a hand to indicate a bit of a question, Shepard nodded in the affirmative. “So, it was clear that they couldn’t really exist within the typical chain of command. Not only that, we saw with Tali being Lead Engineer back with Cerberus that having a Ground Team member be the head of any part of the ship can be a little tumultuous. But we also can’t deny the fact that we all have skills that could be used well: Liara has proven invaluable for The War Room and I know more than just about anybody about calibrating giant guns. Plus, knowing you, we’ll probably be picking up more and more… unique, crew members as time goes by. So, they’re an advisor to the department that, when the Department Head says so, carry an equivalent amount of authority. It’s a good way for us to keep them out of the chain of command while still keeping the capacity to let them do what they do best for the ship.”

“Alright, that makes sense.” Shepard stood up, stretching before walking back to his desk, Garrus following suit. “It’s gonna be a bit of hell implementing this with the crew.”

“I was actually thinking about that, Shepard. According to EDI we’re still about 14 hours from the Diplomatic Ships. It’s going to be tough, but I figure if we get this to the crews now, and then have them re-order themselves while you’re meeting with the diplomats, we can have an operational ship by the time that meeting is done.”

Shepard leaned both of his hands on the desk, still standing, staring through the little bit of the skylight he could see out at the stars. _That’s really not a lot of time. If we had weeks, days even, I’d feel a lot more comfortable with this. I’m basically asking these crewmembers to forsake the organizational system they’ve worked under their entire careers just because I’m getting tired. Maybe this isn’t such a good… NO. You and Garrus agreed, this is a necessary change. You’re not just a commanding officer any more, you’re a Spectre, and one who’s been given a possibly impossible task at that. Regulations were built into the Citadel Charter for this reason specifically. It’s the right call._

“Alright, Vakarian.” Shepard stood straight again and handed the datapad back to Garrus. “I made a few corrections where your grammar and spelling were off. Get those incorporated, and then get it sent out to the crew. I’ve made sure your terminal has XO level authorization.”

“Will do, Shepard. Just a question, though, what rank should I refer to myself as? Something tells me that ‘Badass Vakarian’ isn’t quite appropriate.”

Shepard chuckled. “It might be appropriate, but you’re right it’s not quite professional. I checked the Spectre regs for some guidance, and apparently I have the power to create new positions on board my vessel and fill them with non-Alliance military personnel. The precedent there, at least for rank, is ‘Spectre Officer’. So, consider yourself given the rank of ‘Spectre Officer Vakarian’. Sound good?”

“ I might just call myself ‘Officer Vakarian’, a bit more familiar, but yes: sounds good. I’ll get this sent out right away.”

At that, Garrus stood most of his body back at attention again, but this time his hands were clasped behind his back and his head bowed. It took Shepard a moment to realize what he was doing until he remembered a bit of his training from the N-program’s “Alien Military” module.

During the latter part of the Turian Unification War, when The Hierarchy intervened, it became their goal to take more Turians prisoner on the battle field than kill them, the government realizing that with the power of the chieftans dwindling as quickly as it was, re-unification of The Turian race was a possibility. Not only did this develop some of the best stun-weapon technology that was still used by Citadel Security to stun rather than kill suspects needed for questioning, but it also evolved into the Turian military show of deference (equivalent to the human salute).

When a Turian was taken prisoner, it was traditional for them to be put on their knees with their ankles bound, their hands bound behind their backs, and their mandibles bound such as would keep their head bowed. Naturally, it evolved to be a position of some shame, a demonstration of powerlessness. However, towards the end of the war, when military and political leaders of the rogue colonies began to agree to re-swear their allegiance to The Hierarchy, they were not made to kneel; instead being allowed to stand, military bearing still withstanding, and bow their head and clasp their hands behind their backs of their own accord and without bindings. The presiding Hierarchy officer would then raise his right hand, palm open, to demonstrate the lack of a knife or any other weapon – a show of good faith and the peaceful re-integration of the previously rebel military leader.

This combination of gestures fairly quickly evolved past the shame and dishonor of defeat and capture, instead coming to represent a show of loyalty, respect, and military obedience. Fairly quickly after that, the gesture became integrated into the Turian military culture at large, as the equivalent of the human salute, the best translation of the Turian name for the gesture being “The Honor”. A few more evolutions occurred since: the bowing of the head in the subordinate gesture became less severe, so that they could observe the responding gesture, and it became tradition for the senior officer to say “Carry on” as he gave the response, but for the most part the gesture remained the same.

Seeing Garrus Vakarian render such an action left Shepard feeling slightly out of place. _I know he’s just trying to show respect but, I mean, not only is he my friend but I’ve also never been a huge stickler for military protocol outside of a few settings, this certainly not being one of them. Do I return the Turian action? No, this is a human vessel and I’m a human officer, it’d probably be more disrespectful to try to imitate a Turian superior than just give him the human gesture, I haven’t quite earned the right to give theirs._ Shepard raised his right hand smartly to a crisp military salute and barked “Carry On!” with practiced intensity. Garrus snapped quickly to attention, responding with the human “Aye, Sir!” and faced in fast military fashion to leave.

Shepard paused, laughing a little bit to himself. The two were great friends, and Garrus meant more to Shepard than almost anybody else in the galaxy, but it was still so natural to both of them to fall into their soldiering routine, the rank and protocol, salutes and responses. Both had existed for so long in that world, and it had dominated their lives all the more so in the past three years, that it was but a second skin for boths. _He may be a bad Turian, which I still doubt, but he’s a damn good soldier_.

“Oh, and Vakarian?”

“Yes, Shepard?”

“Thank-you. You know, for writing that.”

“Don’t thank me yet, this entire thing could still collapse around our heads.”

“The galaxy’s already doing that, don’t think it’d be too unusual.”

Garrus laughed as he left, making straight for his terminal in the Forwards Battery to send out the message.

1015 Hours, Mess Hall

In the entire history of his service with the alliance, this was the quietest Staff Lieutenant Robert Tranning had ever heard an Alliance Ship’s mess hall. Mess halls were traditionally loud, fairly boisterous places where crew members joked and laughed, a personal space amidst a military warship. But since leaving Earth, the mess had been filled with nothing but the occasional operation-related conversation or newscast, the question of lost loved ones and the tenuous state of galactic civilization muting all everybody. He was sure it would wear off, even in spite of the world ending sailors and marines (even if they were no longer on the high seas) still loved a good laugh, and history had proven time and again that the human psyche required mirth and laughter to remain whole, commodities which would be found even in the strangest of places during even the darkest of times. But that had yet to happen, and for now, he and the rest of his off-going watch were sitting in the hall, pushing a less-than-hearty helping of less-than-appetizing nutrient paste #13 around his plate.  

After his meeting with The Commander, and the frantic ships schedule that had been used until then, The Normandy had resumed operation on a standard 27 hour Citadel Day watch cycle. All Alliance Ships did the same when underway or away from port, resuming what was referred to as “Charlie Tango Delta Time”, a phonetic pronunciation for the Alliance abbreviation for “Citadel”: CTD.   _Human military and it’s acronyms. Will they ever stop? No, probably not._ The schedule produced some problems for Alliance ships docking with Earth, but seeing as it was more common for ships to be orbiting the planet than landing on it, and a large portion of ships named Arcturus as their home base, it was an annoyance at best. _Well, not anymore. Nobody’s really docking with Earth or Arcturus._

The day was broken into three watches, each one 9 hours long, and appropriately named after the phonetic letters of the alphabet. They were long, beyond any doubt. But 5 years of service aboard two vessels before Normandy meant Tranning was used to the long hours. Each crew-member stood one watch on duty, one watch on “Auxilliary Duty”, which stood for a time to get all of your paperwork and such done, and the rest of the time was personal. Space was at a premium on board The Normandy, so bunks were available to each crewmember for one watch every cycle, every crew-member sharing with two others. Some of the more creative crewmen had found other sleeping arrangements, rumor had it Lieutenant Vega down in Cargo had set up his own little field-house, and some were even saying that Lieutenant Cortez had set up a bunk inside his ever-precious shuttle craft. But for Dyphe, hot bunking was just fine.

Tranning looked around at the other faces, a few of them he knew, a few of them he didn’t. _I need to work to get to know the crewmen we picked up on The Citadel better. If I’m going to serve with them, I should at least know their names and faces._ He stood up with his tray, intending to go and sit by one of the crewmen eating alone on the other side of the table, but as he did so his omnitool went off, as did everybody else’s in the mess, with what was apparently an urgent message. He set down the tray, took a deep breath, fearing the worst, and opened it. _What’s the worst they can say now, Earth got destroyed? Hell, that might even be better._

“FROM: Spectre Officer Vakarian, Executive Officer, Normandy

TO: All Normandy Personnel and Crew

SUBJECT: New Operational Organizational System

CONTENT: I don’t know what Scuttle Butt is saying, but here’s the deal: After discussing it with The Commander, I am now The Normandy’s Executive Officer. Moreover, The Commander and I have decided to re-vamp the command structure of The Normandy to better fit our unique mission, I think it’s fairly safe to say that we’re the only ship running around with a Spectre trying to unite the Galaxy. If there is another ship, please let me know immediately, I wouldn’t mind buying them a drink. Attached is the new Standard Operating Procedures for this new organizational system. It has a new crew-roster at the end, so please read that and be aware of your new position.

According to our illustrious pilot, we will be docking with the Diplomatic Ships in approximately 14 hours. Use that time to read-over the document as much as possible and understand what it means for you and the ship. For most of you, it isn’t going to change how you do your jobs, just who you report to and where you fit. It is likely we will remain docked for approximately 6 while The Commander oversees negotiations with the diplomats there and all parties communicate with their governments. During that time, I want to switch the crew over, get a check from all departments and divisions, and ensure this vessel is ready for war.

Officers – I want you to all report in to me personally during the next 14 hours to either confirm you understand your position, or ask any questions you have. I also want you  to get the same from the enlisted personnel under you before you come.

If there are any questions, please send me a message or stop by the giant gun on the front of the ship.

V/R

Spectre Officer Vakarian, Executive Officer, SSV Normandy

ATTACHMENTS;

1)      Normandy SOP

2)      Normandy Roster”

Tranning finished the message as the rest of the mess hall did, looking up as he considered what he had just read. _A Turian as our XO. That’s certainly unconventional. Then again, given the rank he was listed as, sounds like this is The Commander using his spectre status. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing._

One of the other crewmen in the mess hall, Machinist Mate 2nd Class Clark had apparently had the same thought he had. “Well this is interesting… Commander really changing things around, ain’t he?”

Tranning looked at the man. Short and kind of stocky, he made quite the image in his Alliance Working Blues, the shoulder-armor making his shoulders look about as broad as a barn. The fact that his jaw seemed to always be flexed and his hair was kept in a perpetually uptight jet-black flat-top gave him the look of the stereotypically angry military man, but if anybody ever saw him hold his daughter or give condolences to a fellow crew member after their loss, they would know he was very much the opposite. Tranning knew he hadn’t heard anything of his Daughter or Wife since they had sent their “I’m safe” messages, as they had come to be called, and the mild pain in his eyes and ever-increasing slouch in his shoulder told him that it was still eating at him. _Poor guy, and here we are meeting with a bunch of dignitaries. I sure as hell hope The Commander knows what he’s doing._

Still, the man spoke with a tone that sounded more optimistic than Tranning had heard from him since they left Earth, and his eyes had regained a little bit of that hopeful spark which he had admired in the man.

“I think he is, Clark. You know The Commander, he does what he has to to get the job done. I don’t know much about the Vakarian guy, but I do know he’s been with The Commander since he hunted down that rogue spectre a couple years ago.”

“Yes sir. I know he can do it. He has to be able to. I mean, if not, then we’re all just straight out of luck, right?” Clark laughed in what he hoped would pass as hearty and sincere, but it didn’t take a psychiatrist to hear the lie, hear the plea in his statement. It wasn’t a laugh full of mirth or enjoyment, or even reluctantly conceded humor. It was a laugh thin with grief and heavy with worry, that hadn’t even had the mercy of losing everything it held dear, but rather being forced to float in the purgatory of ignorance. It was the laugh of a man on the breaking point.

Tranning stood up. He looked at Clark in the eyes, seeing the water disappear as the man regained control of himself. They were all at that point, all so close to breaking, feeling strung out like an old rubber band, ready to crack or break at the lightest impetus. _Not even a week into this war and everybody’s a wreck. God in Heaven help us._

“He’ll do it Clark. He’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered how The Normandy operates as a warship, and I suppose this is the answer to my own question. It's probably more than a little boring, but if you're like me then this answers at least a few questions (at least I didn't just write Garrus' SOP). 
> 
> I also didn't like the way the Turian military was just given a human salute in the game, so I changed it. With a bit of backstory. 
> 
> As always, comments and questions are much appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, as always, are highly appreciated! Tell me what you like so I can write more of it. 
> 
> This story is essentially my answer to some of the questions I had at the beginning of the game. You start off rushing out of earth, just getting your ass out of there, but as soon as you do, The Normandy suddenly becomes a well-oiled machine. That seemed a little... implausible. This is more what i imagined happened in between the missions as The Normandy left Earth, as it figures out how to be The Ship that Saved The Galaxy. Enjoy!


End file.
